by Tony Moyle
“You will get your money. I hope you can find a hole big enough to escape to. It will haunt you and if you reappear, so will I.”
“I’m sure I will manage.”
“I need you to go through the plan with me one more time,” announced Byron.
“We’ve been through it a hundred times before,” appealed Dominic, tired of being pulled around on strings like the Prime Minister’s very own puppet.
“Then we will go through it for the hundred and first time.”
“OK, if we must. On Tuesday morning we will receive at our main waterworks depot a large container on the back of a lorry” Dominic regurgitated the plan in a slow repetitive fashion.
“And where is that depot?”
“Oh come on, do we have to go into that much detail? You know where it is.”
“Humour me.”
“Hemel Hempstead,” sighed Dominic, continuing in the manner of an actor reeling off a well-rehearsed script. “The delivery will be marked for my attention and no other person will meet it. The goods-in department has been given the information about the vehicle and I will falsify the goods-in data, creating an entry for twenty-four barrels of folic acid.”
“And what will be marked on the barrels?”
“Oddly, it will say folic acid,” huffed Dominic. “Shall I go on? I’d like to finish before breakfast.”
Byron nodded.
“The barrels will be taken into the processing plant and the team there will be told about the government’s decision to add folic acid to the water supply to reduce infant deformities. The sample will be tested onsite, as everything else is, to verify its contents and to ensure its purity. Of course the real contents will not be tested, so we have created fake reports and certificates for the batch. Once presented with the forged documents, the production department will not query the strange colour of the contents.”
“Why not?” asked Byron, believing to have found a flaw in the plan.
“Because they are underpaid morons who are not employed for their speed of thought or moral fibre. They will add it to the water system without a flinch.”
“How long until it gets into people’s taps?”
“Somewhere within twenty-four hours at the earliest. But by the Saturday the whole of the South-East of England will be having it in their cups of tea and bathtubs. Once your party has been re-elected and you have nationalised all the water companies under my leadership, then we will do the same for the rest of the country. You will have your utopia and I will have a newly discovered preference for bottled water.”
“It all sounds too easy to me,” muttered Byron.
“That’s the beautiful thing, Prime Minister: it is. Now let’s talk payment. When will my money be paid?”
“On Tuesday I will send someone with your money to Hemel Hempstead.”
“Is that wise, sir?”
“I thought you’d be eager for it, Dominic?”
“Well, yes of course, but on the same day. Isn’t that risky?”
“Everything in life is a risk.”
“Who should I expect?”
“I will be sending two people to ensure that no mistakes are made. Don’t worry, one of them is the best in the world at what he does. I have asked him to oversee the operation.”
“This is totally irregular. I protest,” argued Dominic. “We agreed that I would only use people that I trust.”
“Yes, but I also need to use someone that I trust.”
“What is his name?” asked Dominic.
“Victor Serpo,” replied Byron.
“What about the other person that you speak of?”
“Oh, you don’t need to worry about him. I doubt you will even see him,” replied Byron.
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE -
TRUTH AND LIES
When Byron finally reached the underground network of the war offices, deep beneath the streets of Whitehall, it was the early hours of Sunday morning. He’d caught a few hours of restless sleep in the back of his government car, before freshening up at his private apartment. The meeting with Dominic Lightower had gone exactly as planned and, although he felt on top of things, he had desperately wanted to get to Sandy earlier. There were four days until the election and only two before Emorfed would be let loose on the unsuspecting British public. That only gave him two days to take Sandy out of the equation.
Agent 15 was waiting for the Prime Minister at the entrance to the underground rooms in his now familiar black outfit. He, too, had slept restlessly for much of the night, but showed none of the typical signs of fatigue. All part of the training, it would seem.
“Prime Minister, welcome to our hostel for undesirables,” he said, shaking Byron warmly by the hand and leading him through the inconspicuous door that led from the Home Office buildings and down underground via stone steps.
“Have you identified him yet?” Byron asked when they were far from the outside world.
“We believe so, sir. Although we’ve had no luck in making him talk.”
“How did you work out which of them was Sandy, then?”
“We asked Violet really nicely,” replied Agent 15, winking when he hadn’t needed to. “We encouraged her to remember what might have been different about Ian compared to a regular pigeon. On top of that we have some of the best scientific minds working on tests to identify the DNA make-up, to see if we can identify him that way. The one that Violet picked out is being tested now, so we should have the results soon enough. Do you want to see him?”
“Very much.”
As they walked along the row of worn-down brick cells, Byron glanced at each inmate that occupied them. Where once a human would have sat, now most contained pigeons. It gave it the feeling of an aviary rather than a prison. Some of the pigeons sat on the floor seemingly unfazed and even possibly enjoying the experience. Some flew around in a vain search for the exit, petrified by the men that stood guard over them. Occasionally a cell was inhabited by a human, some poor misfortunate soul still groggy from the effects of being shot by a military strength tranquilliser. One loud American voice was shouting insults and promising severe legal retributions.
“What were the characteristics that Violet mentioned?” asked Byron.
“She mentioned that he had very similar characteristics to his human form. Particularly that Ian was an extremely pale person and his pigeon had been pure white. So we had a look at Sandy’s profile and got one of our boffins to do a match,” replied Agent 15, reaching into his pocket to produce the world’s most ludicrous photo e-fit of a purple-coloured pigeon with a bald patch and bristly chin.
Agent 15 stopped at cell one hundred and fifteen and pointed into the cell. His expression beamed with the same satisfaction a cat shows when it brings a dead mouse to the feet of its slightly disgusted owner. The pigeon in this cell had been tethered to the bars of its cage by its feet, wings and head, a process that had caused its feathers to be displaced all over the floor. Bloodied and blackened, its body displayed the results of undisclosed implements ripping at feather and skin. A woman in a white coat and spectacles was still probing it maliciously with a mini-cattle prod. As a gloved hand shot in and out of the cage, the other took samples with a needle. On another table a second scientist was running blood samples through a three-foot analyser as the constant droning sound of a printer reeled off the results.
“Agent 15, your work here is complete. You have exceeded your brief and I must ask you to do so once more,” said Byron, turning away from the pigeon’s despicable torture.
“The job isn’t complete,” replied Agent 15. “We’ve not positively identified Sandy yet.”
“He’s safe. As long as he’s unable to bring attention to Emorfed in the next few days, I’m happy. I have a few things that I must attend to here, specifically with Violet Stokes.”
“What would you have me do instead?”
“You must get personally involved in bringing Emorfed to the people. On Tuesday morning a batch of twenty
-four barrels will be delivered to the main waterworks of Southern Water in Hemel Hempstead. The lorry is parked up in what remains of the Tavistock Institute. I want you to drive it. When you arrive you will be met by their Chief Executive Officer, Dominic Lightower. He’ll know what to do. I want you to assist him and make sure he follows my exact instructions.”
“You want me to be a courier?” grunted 15, clearly of the opinion that this was well beneath his station.
“No, I want you to take responsibility, Victor.”
“How did you get that name?” he growled viciously, pulling Byron into one of the empty archways and leaving his normal composure behind him.
“Did you forget? I’m the Prime Minister. You seem to be under the impression that you run this country. You don’t,” whispered Byron close to Agent 15, but out of earshot of anyone else.
“How naive,” replied Agent 15, smiling and loosening his grip on Byron’s collar.
“I’m sorry, I’m naive, am I?”
“You really don’t know who I am? You think I’m some sort of lapdog that runs to return the sticks that you throw. Be careful, bad owners tend to get bitten,” replied Agent 15, before marching off down the corridor.
Byron glanced back at the pigeon being subjected to its sickening treatment by the hands of the two scientists. He shook his head and continued up the corridor. As before, he scanned each of the cells, quickly verifying each occupant. Most of them were subdued either chemically, physically, or from the despair of their utter solitude. One occupant was less subdued. A female voice echoed down the tunnel, screaming at anyone who had the misfortune to pass by. To confirm his suspicion, Byron wandered down to the cell in question as two guards were trying to calm the occupant with all means available, legal or otherwise.
“Hello, Violet. Finally our paths cross,” said Byron.
“Prime Minister, you must listen to me. You must stop this. Search your conscience, stop this madness,” she implored.
“No, no I don’t think I will if it’s all the same to you.”
“But you can’t possibly understand the plague that you are about to unleash on humanity.”
“I appreciate your concern, Violet.”
“NO YOU DON’T.”
“Did you ever consider your conscience over the years? Ever stop to consider the innocent people that died by your actions? When your crude incendiary devices ripped their bodies apart, did you consider the pain and anguish that they suffered? Did you consider the families that you destroyed, or the children destined to grow up with less parents than God intended? I don’t think you are qualified to lecture me on morality.”
“You have to fight for what you believe in.”
“I quite agree. I guess that makes it alright, then?”
“I’m very aware of the guilt that I have to carry. Are you? Recent events have made me understand that I have done wrong. I am determined to make amends. I have changed: if you give me the opportunity I will show you what is possible,” begged Violet through the bars of her cell.
“Changed? Perhaps. But I can’t risk the likelihood of a relapse to bad habits, so Emorfed will insure your change is permanent.”
“If you can’t see the side effects then you are truly lost. You’re going to destroy spirits with the ease and normality of flicking a light switch.”
“I’m not lost, Violet. I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“You must let me out. I must be allowed to finish what I started,” shouted Violet, shaking the bars of the cell with both hands.
“You will get your freedom, Violet, along with everyone else. I promise you that. Goodbye.”
Byron continued on a well-rehearsed path as Violet’s screams gradually faded with every further step taken. As each cell was observed with a glance, almost immediately he moved to the next. Just at the point when he believed that he would never find what he was searching for, he stopped in his tracks and stared again into cell number three hundred and eight. A shadowy feathered outline was hunched in the murkiest corner hiding from view.
“Guard, open the door please,” asked Byron.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d ask that you disable any surveillance equipment and move away from this place as quickly as you can,” added Byron.
“Sir, I cannot leave my post. We have our orders.”
“Then you have new ones.”
What was so exciting about the pigeon in this cell, compared to the other hundred or so in this part of the network? He placed the key in the lock and pushed it open. Byron waited patiently on the other side until everything he’d asked for had been completed and the sound of the guard’s feet faded into the distance.
“Hello, Sandy,” he said as he entered the cell.
There was no reaction from the pigeon who’d immediately recognised his visitor.
“Strange that you have so little to say. You had such a reputation for being outspoken,” stated Byron as he sat down on an ancient wooden office chair that had been waiting idly for the room’s previous purpose to be called back into action again.
“Where shall we start, then?” said Byron.
Sandy remained motionless in the shadows.
“It’s strange, I’m not usually very good at recognising old colleagues. You know what it’s like in politics, all those wannabes and old-timers. They rise and fall like a pair of cheap tights. Oddly, though, I recognised you straight away. Clearly, it wasn’t because of how you look. Do you know what it was?”
There was still no acknowledgement from the bird.
“It was the smell that gave you away. Power has an odd sort of smell. It bites the nostrils. It’s a pungent, aggressive sort of smell, hard to explain really. I’m good at recognising it, though, I smell it on me.”
The pigeon strolled out from its corner with a very human swagger. There was no little hop forward, bob or characteristic turn of the head. Its mannerisms gave the impression of a bird that had been hypnotised in some strange experiment.
“That’s better. I can see you properly now. You do have some of Sandy’s features I see,” offered Byron, leaning down to come into eyeline with the purple-feathered creature that was trying to stretch itself to its most upright position.
“Well, I’ve lost some weight,” said Sandy. “What do you want?”
“The really important question, Sandy, is do you repent?”
“Intriguing question. You are not normally a man who cares for others. You only care about yourself. Why would that interest you?”
“You don’t know the real me, Sandy. Time is tight so I’ll ask again. Are you repentant?”
“That depends on what you are asking me to repent?”
“Everything. Every underhand, illegal or immoral act that you have conspired to, or personally carried out in the last twenty years,” replied Byron. “To all intents and purposes you’re dead, that must have made you reflect? Are you willing to change in character?”
“Perhaps you didn’t fully understand my real character.”
“I knew enough to make a judgement. You showed enough of your ambition and selfishness for me to feel confident in my own instincts.”
“Or maybe I’m just a good actor?” countered Sandy.
“Either way, its not important now. I need to know what you were really doing at Tavistock on the night of the bombing,” asked Byron, trying to avoid any further verbal jousting.
“I was trying to save lives.”
“Yet you killed many more than you saved that night. What did you know about Emorfed before you went there?”
“Nothing. I still only know what I discovered in the brief time that I had there. It’s obvious that you are going to use it to subdue the human mind, which is enough information to know you should and will be stopped.”
“Your current position would suggest an improbable boldness, my friend. How do you intend to stop me? Are you going to peck me to death?” Byron chuckled alone to his own joke.
“I’m ta
ngible proof that life always finds a way.”
“Well, let me enlighten you. What I can tell you, Sandy, is that Byron intends to create a race that is impervious to temptation and weakness. He intends to suppress the very soul inside us. What you must know now is that the soul is very real. It has depth, feeling and potential well after death. The flesh’s function is to carry it around this Earth, but what’s inside is all that we are.”
“Why do you talk about Byron in the third person like that?” enquired a confused Sandy.
“Because, like the human body’s function, he is here to serve the same purpose. Byron, too, has changed and if I am going to help you – no, us – then I need to know that you are willing to take at face value what I am about to tell you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Byron’s only purpose is to carry me around. I am John Hewson. I’ve been sent here with the single purpose of taking you back to the afterlife. If I fail then your presence in this form will create a crack in the Universe,” announced John.
Sandy circled the words around his head. Once he was certain they were correct, he burst into laughter. He rolled around the floor, banging his wings on the stone tiles and chuckling with a sound that resembled a bird being strangled.
“That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard in my whole life, or death, come to think of it,” spluttered Sandy.
“What, more preposterous than a senior political figure being reincarnated as a pigeon, you mean?” scoffed John.
Sandy stopped laughing as he considered the parallel.
“If you are, John, as you say you are, how did you get inside the Prime Minister?” goaded Sandy, hopping onto the desk in order to analyse him further in case there were some obvious external signs that he’d missed.
“To simplify it, the same way that you found yourself inside a bird. It’s called the Limpet Syndrome and the only difference is that Byron is still alive in here. I’m just suppressing his soul, borrowing his body. Once I’ve gone he will be back to normal, well almost normal anyway.”
John explained to Sandy the situation that they had both found themselves in. He described his journey to Limbo deep inside the Swiss mountains, the process of the Limpet Syndrome, the Soul Catcher, the library in Hell, level zero and the fact that they had until the solstice to get Sandy’s soul back. He also explained how he had managed to capture and send back Ian, before he, too, had been returned through his exorcism. After about an hour of explanation, Sandy jumped onto the steel bed to contemplate what he had heard.
